


Son of the Shadows

by JulisCaesar



Series: Queen’s Freedom [1]
Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Canon-Typical Gender Issues, Canon-Typical Sexism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sexual Slavery, absolutely no critical interrogation of the gender roles as presented in the text, but not in a sexy way, even less interest in handling the rampant ethical issues inherent in the caste system, some uneven style because the writer wrote this over 6 years, there is no sex in this fic just trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulisCaesar/pseuds/JulisCaesar
Summary: Hoping to coerce compliance, Dorothea has Daemon sent to a Queen on the edge of Dhemlan Terreille. In retrospect, this was not her wisest decision.
Series: Queen’s Freedom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097504
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go. This has been on a back burner for 6 years now, and I think it’s finally ready to release. Almost everything in this comes from one question: What if, instead of leaving children in abusive households, the protagonists...didn’t do that? But I’ve freely added OCs to explore aspects not shown in the books, and elaborated on some things that were left unspecified. In general, I play pretty fast and loose with the canon. With that being said, mind the tags. I have not touched the caste system, and awful characters are still awful and will behave awfully. This is not a PG-13 series, although this particular installment is relatively tame.

**1-Hell**

It was hard not to shiver in the face of Ebon Askavi. Andulvar dropped off the Ebon-gray Wind onto the Keep's landing web as the mountain rose starkly above him. Twenty thousand feet high and more, it towered above its neighbors in the Askavi chain.

He had first seen it when he was still alive, a young man serving his first Queen having just made the Offering to the Darkness. Ebon Askavi had scared the crap out of him then when he was sent to deliver records to the Keep, and it still came close now.

The Keep itself was craggy gray stone that blended into the mountain, and older than anything Andulvar knew of. That wasn't the eeriest thing about it: The very books were identical in all three Realms, down to bookmarks and torn edges. It was just, Andulvar reminded himself, one of the things that gave the Keep its charm.

He and Saetan had been here many times as youths before Saetan made the Offering. He had made it late, even for someone from the long-lived races, but when he was the first male to walk away with a Black Jewel, well...Andulvar couldn't blame him for wanting to be sure before making _that_ choice.

They'd still come to the Keep after Saetan took the Black—for centuries they had served in the same Courts, crisscrossing their way across Terreille—but there was something different about it after. It had only gotten stranger after Saetan became High Lord of Hell when he still walked among the living. Then the Keep started to resonate when Saetan stepped inside, as if it knew who was present and approved.

Andulvar wasn't too fond of buildings which thought for themselves.

Between the Offering and Saetan stepping up as High Lord, though, something else had happened: They had signed contracts in Cassandra's First Circle. They had served Witch, and been proud of it, and her Court had been centered at the Keep. Andulvar had gotten very familiar—if never quite comfortable—with the labyrinth of passageways and rooms that extended deep within the mountain.

He shook himself from the memories, finding himself in front of the door to the Keep’s library. Cassandra had been a good Queen, and the last he had served. Ever since her death, he had followed Saetan—and he could only hope those centuries of friendship would be enough to save him from what he had to tell the High Lord of Hell.

Without knocking, he entered the library. While Saetan held hours every day for the residents of Hell, some questions were best answered with the help of a library, and for that, he came to the library one afternoon a month to assist. All he asked was that the demon-dead who served him directly leave him be that afternoon.

A rule that Andulvar now found himself violating. Once inside, it was easy enough to catch Saetan’s eye. With a word—quiet and charming, Andulvar was sure—to the witch he was sitting beside, Saetan stood up and made his way to Andulvar.

“Prince SaDiablo,” Andulvar said, bowing his head appropriately for one Warlord Prince to another of higher rank.

Saetan raised his eyebrows—they so rarely fell back on Protocol, after all. “Prince Yaslana.” His hand was tight on his cane.

Andulvar put an Ebon-gray aural shield and a psychic shield around them. There was no need to frighten the witch. And even less need to mince words. “Daemon has been transferred to Dhemlan Terreille.”

The skin around Saetan’s eyes tightened and the air grew cold. “To which queen?”

The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end, but Andulvar made himself say, “Paloma Dimetrio. Purple Dusk Queen.”

Even as Saetan’s lips curled into a smile, frost spread around his feet. “I think it’s time for the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to remind the Province Queens who they answer to.”

* * *

**2-Terreille**

His room smelled like witch.

Daemon Sadi rolled his shoulders. He had told Paloma his room was only to be entered by men, but clearly she hadn’t listened.

Her loss.

He had established that, pleasure slave or no, Ring of Obedience or not, there were certain rules the queens who owned him had to follow if they wished to continue ruling. Apparently the queens in Dhemlan thought themselves exempt.

He put a Black shield around the room. If the witch was still in here, he intended to make her pay. The psychic scent was new—and proud, making his back stiffen and his hands clench. No doubt some First Circle witch thinking to gain status by bedding him first.

Hanging his jacket on the rack, he crossed the room to the bed—and noticed, for the first time, the maid cowering against it.

Daemon released the energy he was holding and held his hands out, palms up. “What’s your name?”

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him, reeking of fear. “Alisha, Prince.”

He gave her a gentle smile and knelt on the floor. “I was startled—most Courts don’t send anyone to clean my room.” Usually that was a job left to him by choice, and usually any woman in his bed was an attempt at seduction.

“Piffle to most Courts, then,” she said, beginning to uncurl.

That got a brief grin from him. “I feel much the same.”

She smiled slightly, and went to stand up, wobbling.

He put out a hand and helped her up, not flinching at the skin contact. “Go rest for the afternoon,” he said with just a hint of power. “I won't tell the housekeeper.” He would get to arrange his room the way he liked, and Alisha would have a chance to recover from her brush with death.

Alisha looked like she wanted to protest but wasn't sure how. “Yes, Prince.”

“I will tell the housekeeper you are the only one to be let into my room,” he said flatly. He wanted to say he wouldn’t harm her, but that was a promise he couldn’t keep—and the only promises he liked to break were the ones made to Queens. “Dismissed.”

She slid off the bed and he keyed her into the Black shield. If Paloma couldn’t follow instructions, he would ensure she wouldn’t disobey. The only people who could get through that shield were himself and Alisha. After a moment's thought, he added Lucivar. The Eyrien was in Pruul and nowhere near, but if Paloma continued being lax on his use of Craft, it might be time for them to meet up again.

With the maid gone, he tried to relax again. Assigning him to a Dhemlan Court was a new trick from Dorothea, and not one he expected to be successful. If she thought he would be any more obedient in a Territory that had given him half his bloodline, she had apparently forgotten his behavior the last time he was in Hayll.

He snorted at the thought. Perhaps it _was_ time for Lucivar to come find him again.

***

The Hall had been left in ruins six hundred years ago, so Saetan went directly to Paloma’s court. His only escort was Andulvar, and even that was only for appearances. If he had any wish for a proper escort, he could have recruited from Dhemlan Kaeleer; as it was, he was already bound to operating only at night and saw no need to drag any of the living into what was sure to be a disaster.

Andulvar sighed and stepped out of the Coach. Saetan had brought it both for the chance to take them on the Black, and in the event they needed to make a quick exit with his boys. Andulvar closed the Coach door while Saetan adjusted his short cloak, cane hanging from one arm.

It was just before midnight when Andulvar knocked on the front door of Pamola’s manor. Saetan stood behind him, letting Andulvar carry his assigned role.

The butler who opened the door looked like he might faint.

“Please tell your Queen that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan would like to see her,” Andulvar said quietly, wings folded to his back.

The butler choked. “I’ll—I’ll just go wake her up.” He stepped back inside and shut the door at a speed just barely short of slamming it.

*Prissy little thing, isn’t he,* Andulvar sent on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

Eyes half-lidded, Saetan sent back, *Play nice. We are guests.*

The butler took an unreasonably long time to return, but it gave Andulvar the chance to sink leisurely to the Red. The Eyrian’s Birthright Jewel was a shade darker than any in this Court, and the confidence of having a Red Warlord Prince to guard him kept Saetan that much further off the edge.

When the door opened again, the butler ushered them in, trembling faintly. Andulvar stepped to the side and allowed Saetan to go in first. The hallway was dimly lit for one of the living but perfectly serviceable for a Guardian. At the other end was a pair of large double doors that burst open with a touch of power. Andulvar stuck close to his side, behind and to the left.

They entered the throne room together, kept to a slow—intimidating—pace by Saetan’s limp.

The Queen had, perhaps wisely, chosen not to match him in intimidation; she was standing near her throne, surrounded by what looked to be half of her First Circle. “Prince SaDiablo, I—”

“Lady Dimetrio,” he said, cutting her off. There was Protocol to think about—and he would bet she had never referred to his son in that deferential tone. “I am conducting an unplanned inspection of your Court based on the lack of financial records delivered to the Keep.”

She went an unflattering shade of white, as well she should have—when he had checked at the Keep with Geoffrey, her Province hadn’t reported its finances for the past five hundred years. “Prince, I beg your pardon and will attempt to fix this dreadful lapse.”

He smiled, leaning a little more on his cane. “For tonight, I want two suites of rooms, one for me and one for my Master of the Guard, Prince Andulvar Yaslana, with a connecting door. And right now I would like a bottle of Yarbarah.”

*I wanted First Escort,* Andulvar quipped.

*You could have had Steward,* Saetan sent back, watching Lady Dimetrio’s response. Being a Warlord Prince, he had seen no need to set his court up traditionally. Instead, a dozen demon-dead of both genders formed his Inner Circle and helped enforce his authority over Hell.

After a moment, Lady Dimetrio curtseyed. “Of course, Prince SaDiablo.” She gestured at two of her circle, presumably sending one to the kitchens and another to the guest wing. “Is there anything else my Court may do for you?”

Andulvar bared his teeth. *I’m sure she did not mean that the way it came out.*

*I won’t take her up on it.*

The Eyrien sent back a mental sigh.

Paloma Dimetrio flushed bright red. “I meant—”

“How has the growing season been?” Saetan asked, cutting her off. Protocol normally dictated a Warlord Prince was subordinate to a Queen, but Protocol was not designed for a Warlord Prince ruling a Territory.

They managed to keep the subject on agriculture until a Warlord walked in with a decanter of Yarbarah. He poured two glasses, hands shaking, and handed them to Saetan and Andulvar without spilling any.

Saetan heated his absently, and looked at Andulvar. It was unlikely that the blood wine was poisoned, but no reason not to hammer home that he did not trust them.

Andulvar nodded and examined the Yarbarah before taking a small sip.

Saetan watched him and ignored Lady Dimetrio.

After a moment, Andulvar nodded. “It’s safe.” On a spear thread, he added, *Sheep’s blood.*

The Queen tensed, her psychic scent filled with offense.

Ignoring her, Saetan drained his glass. The blood wine was weak—sheep’s blood was no fit replacement for a gift willingly given—but it would keep him functional even in Terreille.

Andulvar followed his lead. *When we return to Kaeleer, there are no doubt some Eyrien warriors eager to prove their strength.*

*Do I have to knock them on their asses first?* Saetan asked.

Before Andulvar could respond, Lady Dimetrio’s Steward entered. A slight man who wore the Steward’s ring on his right hand and the Green on his left, he looked to Saetan first. “Princes, I must beg pardon but there are no rooms of the sort you requested.” He paused, shifting his weight. “I can offer you an escort’s suite with a large set of servant’s quarters.”

Andulvar inclined his head very slightly.

Saetan sent a quick note of assent, but his game with Lady Dimetrio was not yet played through. “Prince Andulvar Yaslana is an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince and my Master of the Guard.”

The Steward went very pale. “My pardons, Prince. Perhaps two separate rooms—”

“No, no,” Saetan said, cutting him off. “In the event of a crisis, I want him near me. Escort’s quarters will be acceptable.”

Lady Dimetrio looked like she wanted very badly to say something, but, fortunately for her health, kept silent.

The Steward nodded shakily and led them out of the court chamber.

The suite they were brought to was acceptable, if located closer to the Queen’s quarters than he would prefer. The Steward left them as soon as could be considered polite, and Saetan began unpacking. He hadn't brought much, but most of what he set out was clothing. Most of what Andulvar had brought was weaponry.

To each his own.

“No guard,” Saetan said, hanging up his suit jacket. “I’ll put shields up.”

Andulvar nodded, shoulders dropping. “Let’s hope they’re prepared for an Eyrien.”

He was referring to the furniture, but Saetan thought, _I hope they don_ _’t have to be prepared for two_.

***

Daemon woke abruptly, at first only aware that something had changed. He lay flat on his back, sorting through the new information.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. The psychic smell of two dark Jeweled Warlord Princes, one lighter than him, the other almost the same shade.

He ought to have been shivering, afraid. He had spent so long pretending that he was no longer sure if he could be a Black Jeweled Warlord Prince if faced with proper competition. He could fake it well enough, sure, but he couldn’t predict the outcome of a true fight.

And yet… It felt like coming home. Something filled in his chest, and the fear and anger he was looking for proved elusive.

_Who are they?_ He was the darkest Jewel in Terreille by two shades; the closest to his strength were a few scattered Grays. But to register so close to him, these men had to wear the Ebon-gray or the Black, and he would have heard of another that powerful.

For a moment he considered, then discarded the thought that one of them was Lucivar. He knew the Eyrian’s presence too well—and it was too unlike Lucivar to avoid him for any length of time. They might be unrelated, but he felt more kinship with the Ebon-gray than he ever had with Kartane SaDiablo.

Eventually, reluctantly, he got out of bed. Paloma hadn’t had much use for his skills since those first few days, but whoever the visitors were, he wanted to see them face to face.

Daemon Sadi smiled, stretched, and began pulling on clothing. He had no intentions of walking away from this battlefield.

He went to get breakfast the way he normally did in Courts such as this: quietly and through the servant’s passages. In his experience, breakfast was a way to show off the previous night’s conquests, and he had no interest in that sort of maneuvering.

The cook had learned about him and his appetite, and had a plate of rolls with jam ready when he walked in.

Daemon smiled, and thanked her. The witch wore Summer-sky, and the previous week he had been able to do a tricky piece of Craft on the ovens, making them better able to hold heat. Whatever tension there had been about his role in the Court had vanished at that.

He had eaten more rolls than perhaps necessary, pocketed two more, and left the kitchen when it hit him.

A wave of dark power, coming down the hallway from the main wing.

Daemon straightened, at first in tension, then in interest. He had wanted to meet the new arrivals, yes, but he hadn’t expected it so soon.

When the other man came around the corner, Daemon thought someone was trying to prank him. A Black Widow, with the skill to change a man’s psychic scent. Because approaching him was _himself_ , only a few thousand years older, gray on the temples, a lined face, walking with a cane—but undeniably, unmistakably Daemon Sadi.

Daemon rose straight to the killing edge. Most witches had learned not to mess with him. Those that hadn’t tended not to survive.

To his shock, he felt the other respond. A more complicated web, then, that could respond to him? Or—

The other backed down first, eyes wide with surprise. “Daemon?” he asked quietly, in a shattered voice.

Daemon broke and ran.

* * *

Safely back in his rooms, Daemon threw up two layers of Black shielding, and a third of Red just for safety.

_It isn_ _’t possible_.

Daemon had known for decades that something about his past was hidden. Hepsabah _said_ she was his mother, but he had no memories of his childhood beyond Manny and Jo. Nothing about any parents. And yet…

The Warlord Prince looked so much like he did, down to the Black Jewels. Could it—

He couldn’t hope. He _couldn_ _’t_. Hope lead only to loss afterward.

Shaking slightly, he sent a message along the Ebon Grey towards Pruul.

*Prick, I need you.*

With that done, there was nothing to do but wait.

***

Pruul was mostly desert. Sand got everywhere, but it was worst in the webbing of his wings and the lines around his eyes. The heat was dry but stifling, making every breath burn and every movement an effort.

Lucivar hated it.

With Dhemlan only two Territories over, he was planning on visiting Daemon anyway, but the cry for help changed his plans.

Daemon _never_ asked for help. Not outright.

Lucivar sighed and went to the Queen. He hadn’t bothered to learn her name, he wasn’t planning on being in her Court long enough. For her part, once he’d arrived she’d set him to hard labor. He didn’t mind too much, anything that kept him out of the bedroom was alright with him.

Still. Better to ask before vanishing. There was nothing like stepping onto a killing field feeling like your cock was burning off.

The Queen’s first response was no.

Lucivar smiled. “I’ll go with your permission or over your dead body.”

She let him go.

He didn’t bother packing. Going straight for the Winds, he took the Ebon-grey towards Dhemlan and hoped he was in time.

The flight was smooth.

Shortly before midnight he dropped from the Web just outside the Dhemlan court. Everyone seemed to be inside except for a maid turning down the lamps. She felt him drop off the webs and jerked in shock.

“Where is Daemon?” He made sure to fold his wings neatly. Few courts were built for an Eyrian’s wingspan.

It took him a moment but he managed to coax the maid into explaining what had happened.

She said that Daemon had only been there a few days, and that he hadn’t been called to perform yet. The night before, however, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan had arrived. And that morning he had run into Daemon, and… Well, no one quite knew. Only that Daemon had vanished into his quarters, and the Warlord Prince was now demanding to see him. After sleeping the day through, the maid added, as if he were demon dead.

Lucivar motioned for her to continue.

The trouble had started not long after sunset. The Warlord Prince had made his demand, Queen Paloma had ordered Daemon to appear, and Daemon hadn’t. That was when the Queen activated the Ring of Obedience.

Lucivar felt the blood drain from his face. “Give me directions.”

The maid did.

Lucivar ran.

Daemon had ended his service at a Court a hundred years before, after the Queen had used the Ring for too long. That had earned him the label Queen-killer, and a full decade in Hayll.

He hit the door to Daemon’s door at a full sprint and smashed into a Black shield. Snarling, he ran into it again, this time with the weight of the Ebon-gray behind him. The shield rang like a bell but didn’t break. He didn’t expect it to.

Standing, shuddering, he stared at the door and let his anger and fear flow. The hall filled with the scent of a Warlord Prince stepping up to the killing edge.

And the shield dropped.

Something in Lucivar unwound, and he threw the door open with Craft. He entered the room in a rush, going straight for the psychic knot of writhing anger.

At some point Daemon had stripped his clothes off, likely trying to relieve any pressure on his cock. He was sitting with his back pressed against a wall and his knees apart, but he had his hands digging into his thighs to keep them that way. Lucivar could sympathize. The pain made them instinctively want to curl up, but doing so only brought more pain.

Lucivar mantled and struggled to keep himself from losing his temper. “Can you walk?”

Daemon let out one breath, then another, tightly controlled. “Yes.”

***

Daemon entered the throne room with Lucivar by his side. He could only move stiffly and had placed a Black shield around his groin, but Lucivar remained precisely beside him. The shield did nothing to help with the pain; it only prevented him from accidentally brushing his cock as he moved.

Paloma was on her throne, surrounded by her First Circle. Down and to her right were two men—the one he had ran into that morning, and an Eyrien.

Clenching his teeth, Daemon took another step into the room.

After a moment, Paloma stopped the pain from the Ring. “Prince SaDiablo, this is him.”

If it was possible for Daemon to get more tense, he would have. As it was, he settled for putting a skin-tight Black shield over himself. Whoever this man was, he was related to Dorothea. That made him dangerous.

For his part, SaDiablo had gone rigid. “Daemon. Where are your clothes?”

The room was cold, Daemon noted as he smiled. “SaDiablo. Any relation to my dearest mother?” Mother or no, Daemon was planning on tearing Hepsabah’s throat out himself. Along with every other SaDiablo’s.

SaDiablo frowned. “This is not a conversation everyone needs to be party to.”

Paloma sat upright. “He’s dangerous! The only way to control him is through the—” She quailed under SaDiablo’s glare.

Daemon almost approved.

“A fight between two Black Jeweled Warlord Princes is not one your Court would survive,” SaDiablo said quietly, “even with a Ring of Obedience.” He turned his attention back to Daemon. “Meet me in the library. With clothes on, please.”

With that, SaDiablo turned and walked out of the room, the silent Eyrien following.

Daemon looked at Lucivar.

*I wouldn’t want to meet those two on a killing field,* Lucivar told him.

Daemon nodded. *But if that’s the option…*

*Rather Dorothea than them.*

Dorothea didn’t understand them, didn’t know how Warlord Princes worked. She gave them too much leeway, and they took advantage of it. If their contract was passed to another Warlord Prince… Daemon would rather take the challenge.

Still, he called in a set of clothing. Best to hear what SaDiablo had to say.

Together, they walked out of the throne room.

***

The library was small for a Province Queen; evidently Lady Dimetrio did not place a lot of value on reading. Saetan wished, hopelessly, to be in his study in the Hall, safely behind his desk. Instead he was in a low backed armchair, sitting only because his legs refused to let him stand.

Andulvar stood right behind him, occasionally shifting restlessly. “What if they don’t come?”

Once, Saetan would have gone and fetched his boys. Then they had been _his_ boys. Now?

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

The quiet lasted for another minute, and then the door to the library swung open.

Saetan had noticed before how Daemon and Lucivar moved together. He had described them as brothers. Andulvar had described them as warriors.

Neither was incorrect.

Daemon had found clothes: a white shirt with a black waistcoat, slacks, socks, and dress boots. When he walked in, the temperature in the room dropped.

Lucivar was in an Eyrian’s tunic and breeches, and stood behind his brother.

The pairing was unmistakable.

Saetan nudged the door closed with Craft and put a Red lock on it. No one from this court would be able to get through that, but if necessary, any of those in the library could get out.

Daemon didn’t relax. “What do you want?” he asked, hands in his pockets and not making eye contact.

Now that he was there, Saetan did not quite know where to start. “I am Saetan SaDiablo.”

“And as I asked before, any relation to my mother?”

This time Andulvar couldn’t contain a snort.

Lucivar tensed.

Andulvar chucked. “Calm down, puppy. It’s funny because Daemon’s mother isn’t who he thinks she is. That’s all.”

Daemon tilted his head. “Who is she, then?”

“Tersa,” Saetan said.

Daemon drew in a quiet breath, and said nothing.

“And who might you be?” Lucivar jerked his chin at Andulvar.

“Prince Andulvar Yaslana, Warlord Prince of Askavi Kaeleer.”

Lucivar took a step back. “You’re demon-dead,” he said flatly. “How can you be here?”

*High Lord of what did you think, Prick?* Daemon sent on an Ebon-gray thread.

On the same thread, Andulvar replied, *We can sense that, you know.*

Both the boys went pale.

“Are you my father?” Lucivar blurted out, sounding much younger than his thousand years.

Andulvar laughed, a real one. “Because of our surnames?”

Lucivar went from pale to flushed too fast to be healthy. “Dorothea didn’t name me Yaslana. Someone had to.”

“I did,” Saetan said, eyes on Daemon. “I named both of you.”

Daemon put it together first. He looked up, and a slow, cold smile spread across his face. “Of course. That would be so _nice_ for you, wouldn’t it? Bring me under your thumb by claiming paternity seven hundred years too late, and claim my mother is someone who couldn’t possibly know otherwise. A perfect plan. Here’s my question: When I’m serving you, would I still be serving Dorothea by proxy?”

Saetan felt something in him draw up and prepare for battle, something else curl up and die quietly. “You are my sons.”

“So I take it I’m not to be serving in your bed,” Daemon said too softly.

There was nothing he could say to that.

“Is that all?” Daemon continued in that quiet voice. “I’m sure I have better things to do than meet long lost family members. Good day.” He turned and passed through the door, avoiding the Red lock entirely.

Lucivar followed, silent.

Into the quiet, Andulvar said, “That could have gone worse.”

Saetan raised an eyebrow.

“At least the building is still standing.”

Not sure what to do next, Saetan sighed. “For how long?”


	2. Chapter 2

**1-Terreille**

To his surprise, the decision was made for him when Lucivar knocked on the door to his quarters two days later.

His son stood in the doorway, wings tight against his back. “I have a question for each of you.”

Saetan stiffened. Bluntness was an Eyrien. trait, but he had not expected this. “Lucivar. Please come in.” He stepped away from the door, eyes flicking to Andulvar.

Stepping into the room, Lucivar looked around.

Saetan eyed him. “Mind if I sit?”

Lucivar looked surprised. “Why would I?”

 _Ah, Eyrians_ , Saetan thought fondly. _Always know where I stand with Eyrians._ He took a seat in the armchair as Andulvar hovered by the window. “What was it you wanted?” His hip twinged less sitting than standing, and his knees could not give out if he was not putting any weight on them.

In an instant, Lucivar changed from surprised to on edge. “Two questions. That's it. Honest answers to two questions.”

“Very well,” Saetan said, leaning back in the chair. “What are they?”

Whatever fight Lucivar had been working himself up for, that clearly wasn't it. “I—That's it?”

Saetan raised his eyebrows. “Would you like me to quibble about what constitutes a question and how detailed the answers must be, or would you rather get the knowledge you are so clearly after?”

Lucivar flushed and looked down. “If I like your answers, I'll tell Daemon that.”

“And if you don't?”

He looked back up. “I'll tell him that too.”

“Ah,” Saetan said quietly. A Black Jeweled Warlord Prince and Black Widow, with his Ebon-gray Eyrien Warlord Prince at his back. It seemed that history had a sense of humor. “Ask your questions, then.”

“Prince Andulvar Yaslana.” Lucivar straightened, wings no longer so tightly held behind him.

Now _that_ was unexpected.

Andulvar looked equally caught off guard. “Yes?” 

“Warlord Prince of Askavi Kaeleer?” Lucivar was headed for some point, even if Saetan did not know what it was.

“Yes.”

“You've been to an Eyrien hunting camp?”

At that Andulvar laughed. “Puppy, I _invented_ them.”

Lucivar flinched. “What would you do,” he continued doggedly, “if a half breed tried to join?”

Saetan froze.

Andulvar took a step away from the window, wings flaring. “There are no Eyrien half breeds,” he said flatly.

Something horrible flashed across Lucivar's face. He looked broken for a moment, his mask torn off to reveal the child whose father had walked away.

“If you have wings, you are Eyrien,” Andulvar continued in the same flat tone. “Lineage does not matter.”

Lucivar breathed, shoulders slumping. “Then why—”

A child's complaint, a child's tone.

Andulvar looked murderous. “They have forgotten Eyrien honor. There was never any difference between those with one Eyrien parent and those with two.”

“Not to your eyes,” Lucivar muttered.

“Not at _all_ ,” Andulvar said flatly. “Or are you accusing me of not knowing what goes on in my own camp?”

There was no correct answer to that, and Lucivar knew it. He nodded, stepping back. “Did you know that Luthvian raised me?” he asked, tone challenging.

Saetan had not, although now that it was said he wasn't surprised. There was no way Dorothea would have let Tersa anywhere near Daemon if she could help it, but Luthvian would roll over and show her belly for the chance to raise her son her way—wingless.

“We didn't,” Andulvar confirmed out loud.

Saetan remained quiet. He wanted to see where Lucivar was going with this.

“Prince SaDiablo,” Lucivar said, just barely shy of aggressive. “Who is my mother?”

He had a feeling that the simple answer would not be satisfactory. Nor should it be. Lucivar deserved the truth. “Luthvian was born without wings, and until the day you were born I thought she was Hayllian. Nor did I know she was fertile.”

Lucivar's expression was closed off. “Explain.”

Saetan closed his eyes. The whole truth, then. “I was asked to see Luthvian through her Virgin Night.”

No more explanation on that front was necessary; Lucivar nodded.

“I honestly didn't think I was fertile, and she swore that she'd been drinking the brew to prevent pregnancy, swore it wasn't her fertile time. And she never told me she was Eyrien.”

His son stood there, wings tight to his back, face torn. “And then I was born. An accident.”

Saetan dug his fingernails into the arms of the chair. “Not a regretted one. _Never_ a regretted one. Dorothea got to Luthvian before your Birthright Offering, and she denied paternity. I could do nothing.” Without paying more than he wanted to pay. Without the nightmare of leaving behind more than adult bodies.

And without shattering the rules that kept their dangerous, deadly society together. Lucivar, who had never killed a Queen, would hopefully understand that.

After a long moment, Lucivar nodded.

Saetan released his anger, and surrendered to his son an emotional weapon. “So that you know it all. When you were an infant, Luthvian wanted to cut your wings off. I said I would slit your throat first.”

Oddly—or not oddly, because that motivation was the same reason he had made the promise centuries ago—Lucivar relaxed fractionally at that. “I will tell Daemon.”

Darkness bless Eyrians. “Take care, Lucivar.”

Lucivar jerked, looking hopeful and afraid. “Take care—” He started another word, cut himself off, and was gone through the door.

Saetan sighed.

“That went better,” Andulvar said.

“Yes.” Saetan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I do wonder what it forebodes.”

***

Daemon paced in his room. Lucivar had told him about his conversation, and then left him be, and the result was unsettling. The High Lord seemed to be sincere, his answer to Lucivar straightforward and both fitting the facts and exculpating him from guilt.

Which was the problem, Daemon thought, turning on his heel. It would be easier to believe a man who had acknowledged his wrongdoing, but this?

He ran a hand through his hair. He had no interest in a pitched battle, didn't know who would win, but the odds of him submitting voluntarily to Saetan SaDiablo were slim.

But at the same time, if Saetan was sincere about wanting them away from Dorothea’s influence—he hadn’t said so outright but it was impossible to miss—then surely they could agree for long enough to get the Rings removed and then go to ground.

He had to know more. After sunset, he went to the rooms Saetan commanded.

“I have some questions for you,” he said, taking the same tactic Lucivar had. It had worked for the Eyrien, at least, and perhaps SaDiablo would be caught off guard.

By the way Saetan’s mouth twisted, he had recognized it. “Are they enough questions that you would be more comfortable sitting?”

He eyed the other Warlord Prince. Standing would force Saetan to stand too, if he was reading the other man correctly, and since Saetan was leaning on a cane that would hurt him—but did Daemon want to use that card so soon? “That would not be a bad idea.”

Saetan sat in the nearest chair without turning away from Daemon, leaning his cane against the side and extending a hand to a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

Daemon also didn’t take his eyes off Saetan, sitting and putting up a Black shield around the rooms. “No bodyguard today?”

Leaning forward, Saetan rested his chin on one fist. “Is that one of your questions? Your brother only asked two.”

He was obviously not to be handled the way they had handled Lucivar, Daemon decided, although he didn’t know if this was a good or a bad sign. “I never specified the number of questions.”

“You always were the thinker,” Saetan murmured. “Andulvar is returning to the Keep to bring a better quality in blood wine. Lady Dimetrio’s is lacking.”

Daemon showed him a lazy smile. “Like so many other things about her.” He paused and, when Saetan didn’t say anything, said, “Why should I believe you?” He realized the moment the words were out of his mouth that he should have specified what about.

Saetan’s lips twitched, but all he said was, “Your paternity was recorded at the Keep. As well as your mother. There is a reason Dorothea has never let you go there.”

“My paternity was denied,” Daemon said, leashing his temper. SaDiablo was either the boldest liar to walk the Realms—or he was telling the truth.

After a moment, Saetan straightened. “If you will not believe the evidence of your eyes...” He extended his right hand out, palm up.

The familiar snake tooth was visible, wet and shining, under the nail on his ring finger.

Daemon kept his reaction to a short jerk. “Dorothea’s webs are powerful,” he said—truthfully enough, but if this man was who he said he was…

“I could poison you as evidence,” Saetan said dryly.

Surprised, Daemon smiled before straightening his face again. “Why let her-?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. There had been so many points where a father— _anyone_ would have helped, but a _father_ _—_ what kind of man _was_ he, anyway, to walk away?

Saetan looked every one of his years. “I felt there was no other choice. She would push me too far and—” He cut off as the temperature in the room dropped.

Distantly, Daemon felt himself rise to the killing edge. “You felt wrong.” He turned his back on the man and walked out of the room, dropping the Black shield behind him.

***

Saetan remained seated, putting a Red psychic shield up so no member of this Court could sense what had just happened. He sighed deeply, sitting back in the chair and wishing for Andulvar to return more quickly. There was no choice with the boys but to tell the truth; on the other hand, the truth was not always going to work in his favor, as they had just seen.

When Andulvar did return, he caught the scent immediately. “I take it that did not go as well as it did with Lucivar.”

“Not at all,” Saetan said, staring into the fire. “He wanted to know why I didn’t come for him.”

Andulvar called in a bottle of yarbarah and levitated it over to him. “He needs to know about Zuulaman.”

Saetan examined the bottle, but set it on the arm of the chair rather than open it. “If you tell him, be wary.”

“When did you become my mother?”

Frowning, Saetan looked up at him. “He is darker than I am, Prince. There was a Black shield around this room when he rose to the edge. You won’t be able to fight your way out of that.”

Andulvar sobered and nodded. “Still. If you think he’s going to understand _without_ hearing the story...”

Saetan did open the bottle at that, feeling old and bitter. Past mistakes only seemed to breed more mistakes, piling upon each other until there was nothing left of his accomplishments. “I don’t think he’s going to understand.”

“Then we tell them and let them make their own bad choices.”

He snorted and poured a glass. “As long as their bad choices don’t out-do ours, we may yet be in luck.”

***

The next day, Lucivar had taken himself outside to stretch—and avoid the ballroom—when Andulvar found him.

“Where is your brother?”

Lucivar didn’t bother pretending to be confused. “Serving,” he said darkly, surprised Andulvar hadn’t picked up on the psychic waves coming from the ballroom.

Andulvar paused. “In what way?”

“In no way that will leave anyone dead tomorrow, never fear.” Lucivar called in a stick and used it for balance.

Andulvar’s scent sharpened. “Are there ways that would leave people dead?”

Lucivar blinked, giving up on stretching for the moment. “You have no idea, do you?” He gave Andulvar—Andulvar Yaslana, Warlord Prince of Askavi, the Darkest and most infamous Eyrien—a long look. “Sometimes they try to bed him. Usually they last long enough to regret that choice. Lady Dimetrio, unfortunately, is not quite that stupid, not with the High Lord around. Tonight he’s a pretty centerpiece for the party. Everyone gets to look, no one gets to touch. There will be plenty of unfulfilled witches come morning, though, if you’re interested.”

To his disappointment, Andulvar met the challenge with a smirk. “Demon-dead, boy. There’s not much that affects me now, pretty witches or no.”

“What did you want to tell him?” Daemon had told him that morning what Saetan—their father, Lucivar was increasingly convinced, even if Daemon wouldn’t admit it—had said. There was a piece missing. Would Andulvar just hand it over?

Andulvar would not. “Something best said directly. Will he be done before morning?”

Lucivar weighed options and came down on the side of annoying the most people. “No reason not to interrupt him now,” he said, smiling.

Spreading his wings, Andulvar looked him up and down. “What do you have in mind?”

“There’s no need for it to end in blood,” Lucivar told him, vanishing the stick again and starting to move toward the manor. “Tears, perhaps. But not blood.”

***

Andulvar let Lucivar lead him toward the ballroom, a little baffled that the other Eyrien moved so authoritatively in a court not his own. How did he even know where the ballroom was? When had he scoped out the manor?

Lucivar made no particular effort to blend in as they approached the ballroom. Demetrio must have invited her whole Court, which just sparked more annoyed questions for Andulvar. This sort of business was Saetan’s problem. Not his.

The Blood didn’t let Lucivar through so much as they melted away. Andulvar couldn’t see his face but the expression must have been spectacular. The party—which none of them had known about, nor had Lucivar apparently cared to support Daemon—involved some degree of sensuality from the attendees, no doubt helped by the alcohol that filled the air. Demetrio’s Court was young and pretty and Andulvar hoped, dimly, that someone was making sure the partnerships coming from this were consensual.

And yet, for all that there were a good dozen couples rapidly moving towards undress, the focus of the room was on Daemon. He was in a slashed white shirt tucked into tight black pants, flirting loudly with the closest witch.

Andulvar didn’t need Lucivar’s raised hand to tell him to hang back. Something about the way Daemon moved raised the hairs on his neck.

Even Lucivar didn’t approach directly, but rather inserted himself into a group of witches near Daemon. It didn’t take long for Daemon to glance over, make eye contact with Lucivar, and then look at Andulvar. 

Only milennia of experience kept Andulvar from meeting the challenge in those eyes. Daemon wasn’t riding the killing edge—not yet at least—but he was cold clear through, yellow eyes full of a murderous urge his father usually lacked.

“What a surprise to see you here,” Daemon said, discarding witches and stepping towards him. “I thought you wouldn’t be much interested in parties, otherwise I would have made sure you knew.”

Andulvar fought instinct, holding his wings tight to his back. “Something came up I thought you should know.”

When Daemon smiled, it was flint-tipped and deadly. “Not for public consumption, I take it? Pity. Well, it's not like the entertainment here was any good.”

One of the witches protested, and Daemon turned in a flash, suit coat flaring.

“The alternative, of course, is that I pay attention to you,” he said casually. “I didn’t think you wanted that, Mirabella. Did you change your mind?” Daemon wasn’t touching her, but something was—something pressed her dress out of shape and spread her legs apart and, when she tried to say something again, tipped her head up and contorted her face.

*Daemon,* Lucivar sent on the Ebon-gray.

Face tight, Daemon turned his back on the witches and walked away. *There’s a balcony,* he sent back. *Follow me.*

More than ever, Andulvar wondered if Saetan had thought this through. Daemon was a Queen-killer and unstable even by the standards of Warlord Princes—and unlike his brother, there was no one who outranked him.

He followed anyway. A message like that was a challenge, and Andulvar had never backed down from one yet.

The weather outside was mild, but it dropped several degrees when Daemon swung the doors shut with Craft and threw a Red shield—aural and psychic, as far as Andulvar could tell—around them.

Daemon gave him a casual, sideways look. “What should I be calling him?”

No need to ask who. But… “How do you think of him now?” Andulvar asked, curious.

“That bastard,” Daemon said, smirking. Lucivar blanched.

Andulvar met smile with smile and threw Saetan to the wolves. “He is. His mother couldn’t say who sired him.”

That caught Daemon off guard, making him pause for a moment, face going blank. “What did you want?”

“You wanted to know why he let Dorothea have you,” Andulvar said bluntly. “I thought you have a right to know.” Not just as the victim here—although he was that too—but as his father’s son. In every way. No doubt Dorothea had kept him from learning the true strength of the Black. It was time that changed.

Both of the boys went straight and stiff. “Go on,” Daemon said, jaw tight.

He told them quietly, shield or no. He kept his words simple and his sentences short, too, so emotions tens of thousands of years old couldn’t distract from the message: A malevolent wife, a trade agreement. A baby. A betrayal. A tiny box. And then all the missing, the dead, an entire _people_ wiped from the Realms, all because Hekatah didn’t understand the power her husband wielded.

It made Lucivar stop and think, but when Andulvar looked at Daemon all he saw was a cold boredom.

“Is that all?”

Andulvar stared at the other Warlord Prince. “He destroyed a Territory. Wiped its memory from the Realms.”

A strange, eerie smile came over Daemon’s face. “Perhaps I should let them kill me after all. At least then Hayll would be destroyed.” He jerked his head at Lucivar and left the balcony.

Lucivar left more hesitantly but followed his brother.

***

Saetan said nothing as Andulvar relayed what had happened. The Eyrien remembered that time much better than he did and perhaps someone else would be able to get through to Daemon.

Or perhaps not.

“Pray that he doesn’t realize we both wear the Black,” the High Lord said, closing his eyes.

***

The next two days were very nearly calm: No one had wanted Daemon—in their beds or, frankly, around at all, which suited him well—and the High Lord and Andulvar had kept to themselves in the night. Daemon spent most of the time going through the library and waiting for something to break.

Just after noon on the third day, Tersa wandered into the courtyard.

Lucivar was able to steer her inside, away from any of Dimetrio’s court, and get her to Daemon’s quarters without much fuss.

“Boy?” she said, as Lucivar brought her in.

Daemon crossed over to her and put his hands under hers. “Tersa? It’s me. Daemon.”

She gave him a faint, wobbly smile. “There was a web.”

He wanted to know what had happened to make her so skinny; the last time he had seen her, she had been almost healthy and now she was nearly skeletal again. “What did the web say?”

Tersa ambled over and sat herself on the bed. “Find the boy.” She bit her lip and stared at him. “Questions.”

Daemon looked at Lucivar, who shrugged. “Tersa, where have you been?”

Her gaze shifted, flickered. “Questions,” she said again, insistently. “Bring you a message. The boy had questions.”

He did, but he wasn’t sure that Tersa was the one who he should ask.

“The High Lord is here,” Lucivar said, sitting on the bed next to Tersa. “Do you know him?”

What an astute question from Lucivar. Daemon stayed silent for the answer.

Tersa frowned, looking at Lucivar. “The Priest.”

“The Priest?” Daemon asked. The title sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

She grinned suddenly, leaping up to put her hands on his face. “You—” The words stuck in her throat; she made several shapes with her mouth and eventually put her hands down, scowling. “The High Lord is the Priest. Of the Hourglass,” she added after a thought.

As a Black-Jeweled Black Widow, of course Saetan was at the head of the Hourglass's shadowy hierarchy. And unlike Daemon, he had training. “What did he do to you, Tersa?”

Her face contorted and she began to pick at her dress. “You are his mirror.”

His stomach turned over and he took her hands again. She was the only witch he would touch like this and as unsettled as he was, he wouldn’t hurt her and never had. That knowledge, and the half-formed memories behind his tongue, sparked his next words. “ _Mother_?”

She made a delighted, inarticulate noise and kissed his cheek. “They took you,” she said, and now the words bubbled out. “He would kill, but they lied and took you. The land remembers, the land knows. They lied about your brother, but he is not the father’s mirror.”

Quietly, Daemon repeated his question, swallowing a mix of emotions. “What did he do to you, Tersa?”

She stared at him blankly and shook her head. “My boy.”

“Did he break you?” Lucivar asked, going straight to the point.

Her eyes flicked between the two of them. “The web said it would be him.” She was wringing her hands now, and Daemon’s heart hurt to see it. Whatever she had wanted to tell him, it had not been this.

“Tersa...” He trusted her, he realized. Tersa was broken and walked in the Twisted Kingdom, but she never _lied_. “Did he break you, Tersa? Did the High Lord spear you?”

She pulled threads from the sleeves of her dress, one after another. “There was a bed,” she said, words slurred. “So much blood. Pain.”

Lucivar swore.

Daemon clenched his teeth, hitting the killing edge and not remotely caring that Paloma would be able to feel. “Keep her here, prick.”

He left the room before Lucivar could reply, going to find his father—the man who had raped his mother.

***

Saetan was blissfully asleep when someone grabbed his shoulder and unceremoniously hauled him out of bed.

He hadn't stepped onto a battlefield in ten thousand years. It took him a moment to realize that was what was happening, and another to call up the Black.

By then whoever had woken him had wrapped him in a shield and passed through the wall—into bright, blinding sun. Saetan recoiled from the light and the pain and _finally_ pushed out with Craft. But the Black met Black and for the first time it was Saetan who backed down.

“You filthy whore.”

Power slammed into his back and threw him forward. Saetan didn’t, couldn’t try to resist it. He landed hard on his bad hip, which screamed in painful counterpoint to the burning all over his skin.

He got his hands under him, already turning red in the sun, and tried to push himself upright. A boot hit him in the gut and he collapsed again, side on fire with new pain.

“You little lying shit. No wonder you share Dorothea’s name, you’re her fucking kin aren’t you?”

The words he couldn’t parse gave him the time to gather the Black and turn to face his attacker.

Daemon didn't move, but Black power hit Saetan in the chest anyway and knocked him flat. “I don’t think so, _father_.”

The pain from the sun was bad enough. The pain from that word, used in _that_ tone, was a thousand times worse. He reached for the Black again.

Daemon sneered and put up a hand. Beneath and within the two of them, the Black web shook. Saetan lost his concentration and had to withdraw to the Red—where he was definitely outclassed.

He wheezed something that might have been a question, hating that he was so weak in the sun and filled with a new emotion: fear.

“You don’t deserve an explanation,” Daemon said coldly, flicking out again with his power. This one cut, tearing open Saetan’s face. “But you’ll get one anyway, so you die knowing why. You broke _Tersa_!”

He froze in surprise. Saetan had expected his sins to be held up against him, not the least of which was abandoning his sons. He had not expected to be attacked for something he didn’t even _do_.

His resistance and denial were evident to Daemon. “You _fucker_.” Another slash, another line of blood and pain across his face.

He wanted to fight back, get up, do something about the hate and anger radiating from Daemon. But every inch of his body hurt, from the sun and from not enough blood and from the constant battering of the Black, and it was all he could do to throw up a Red shield before Daemon’s next attack fell. The clash of Jewels hit both of them, but it hit Saetan harder, and harder still when Daemon followed up.

“ _Stop_.”

A new voice. He craned his neck to see and was kicked again.

“Boy.” A female, but her psychic scent was twisted and muddled. “Mean.”

Daemon stepped back and Saetan breathed out shakily. Nothing was broken, but there would be some impressive cuts and bruises.

“Tersa,” someone said and Saetan jerked hard enough to make his back cry out.

Daemon turned away from him, giving Saetan the chance to sit, even if he wasn’t ready to try standing yet. “I told you to keep her away,” he snarled.

“Have you tried keeping her anywhere?” was the reply and now Saetan could place the tone: Lucivar.

A soft huff. “ _Boy_ ,” Tersa said again, more firmly. “Do not...” She trailed off.

Saetan managed to stand just as Tersa slipped past Lucivar entirely. She threw herself at him and Saetan found his arms full of witch.

“ _Tersa_ ,” Daemon snapped.

She turned, still in Saetan’s arms, and made a tsking noise. “The boy does not understand,” she said over her shoulder to Saetan.

Saetan looked up to meet Daemon’s familiar, cold, yellow eyes. “No, I don’t think he does.”

Daemon snarled. Lucivar stepped up beside him.

“Three!” Tersa said before anyone could act. “The web needed three to be heard.”

Saetan watched Daemon step down and away from the killing edge and make the transition to a Black Widow. “Can this wait?” Daemon asked, voice more gentle than Saetan had ever heard it. “Perhaps in private.”

Tersa growled, low in her throat. “No. _Three_.”

“Three,” Saetan agreed, stepping back from her and keeping a shamefully wary eye on his boys. “Which three, Lady?”

Tersa pulled her hands apart to show a glowing white pyramid. “Father, brother, lover.” She looked between the three of them, face split in a grin. “She is coming.”

Saetan staggered, nearly dropping Tersa before he could get his bad leg stiffened enough to support them. _She is coming_. 

Daemon stepped forward and slid his hands under Tersa's. “He won't hurt you.”

Tersa jerked her hands away and leaned into Saetan. “The Blood triangle has four sides.”

_Witch._

He managed to keep them both upright and carefully, very carefully, with an eye to his namesake, turned Tersa to face him. “Lady, there was another conversation.”

He strongly suspected that Daemon had talked to Tersa and had taken one of her answers wrongly—or she had answered a question other than the one he had asked. It seemed the conversation had gone so far awry that Daemon thought _he_ was the one who had broken Tersa, and Saetan couldn't imagine who else here would know enough to give Daemon that impression.

“There was?” Tersa said, looking up with wide, confused golden eyes.

He nodded, grateful that Daemon was so wary of frightening Tersa that he wasn't about to finish what he had started. “Yes. Daemon-”

“The boy.” Tersa's eyebrows drew together. “ _My_ boy.”

Daemon didn't appreciate being called a boy, but Saetan ignored him for the moment.

“Yes. He was curious about your Virgin Night.”

Saetan had never asked about it. If Tersa remembered, he didn't want to know for fear he would upset the delicate—and decidedly temporary—truce between him and the Hayll coven. He had never asked Luthvian either, and she had never mentioned it.

Daemon's limited patience ran out. Despite this, incredibly gently, he turned Tersa away from Saetan again. “He broke you, Tersa. Saetan broke you.”

“No!” Tersa pushed out at Daemon with both hands and he stumbled back. “No. No. You're the triangle.”

Lucivar stepped forward, not touching Tersa but joining the group. “Who was there on your Virgin Night?”

Radiating frustration, Tersa shoved at him too. “Not the Priest! Not him! Listen! She is coming.”

Saetan looked at Daemon, still too shaken to make a suggestion. Hopefully Daemon had enough experience with witches in the Twisted Kingdom to know when to push and when to yield.

For better or for worse, Daemon had met enough witches. “Let's take this inside.” Still gentle, he pulled Tersa away and jerked his head at Lucivar.

Old and tired, every inch of skin in pain, Saetan followed his sons back inside.

***

Daemon paced the library, unable to hold still. He was embarrassed at the mistake he'd made, but didn't regret it a bit. Tersa was upset at him—whether for the accusation or that he'd misunderstood her wasn't clear—and was sitting in a chair, legs pulled up, sulking. Lucivar had gotten fed up with everything and was patrolling the court, most likely giving Demitrio heart palpitations.

And Saetan had gone back to his room to recover.

He still wanted to meet the other Black Jeweled Warlord Prince on a killing field. He still wanted to prove to him which was the stronger Black. But he'd leashed his temper because it was upsetting Tersa, and because like it or not, Saetan SaDiablo was the best chance they'd had in centuries at getting free of Dorothea. It had taken hours to come to this conclusion and he still wasn't comfortable with it, but...

But Tersa didn't lie. Tersa, when he could steer her away from her focus on the message, confirmed that Saetan hadn't broken her, but had sired Daemon. And had taken Luthvian through her Virgin Night at Tersa's request.

Daemon could put the rest together just fine: If Tersa liked Saetan, and Dorothea had gone to great lengths to make sure Daemon didn't remember Saetan, then Saetan and Dorothea couldn't be allies. Were most likely, in fact, bitter enemies.

And Daemon could use that. He might not be comfortable with the Warlord Prince who'd sired him, but Saetan had the strength—the uninhibited strength—to break the Rings. And then...And then if Saetan wanted something, he could greet Daemon as an equal, and they could negotiate like Warlord Princes.

Of course, all of this depended on Saetan showing up to negotiate.

It was evening when Lucivar gave up and came into the library. “The bitch Queen will want me back eventually.”

Daemon remained seated, steepling his fingers. “Hopefully this will be over tonight.”

Lucivar, after a searching look, stood behind Daemon's chair and either dozed off or, for the first time in his life, was able to remain still for more than five consecutive minutes. Daemon had his suspicions which it was.

It was well after nightfall that the library door opened again and Saetan entered, followed by Andulvar.

*They look like us,* Lucivar said on a private thread.

Daemon acknowledged the comment but didn't respond. Saetan was still sunburned on his face and hands, and he moved stiffly, not just from whatever was wrong with his leg, but now also protecting ribs on the opposite side. For all that, he still looked better than he had when Daemon had gotten through with him.

“You asked to see us?” Saetan said, sitting gingerly in the chair across from Daemon.

This man had destroyed a Territory and its people over the death of a son, Daemon thought. But he hadn't done anything over the abduction of two more. “Let us assume you're telling the truth,” he said, silky soft.

Andulvar bristled, taking up the same position behind Saetan that Lucivar held behind Daemon.

Saetan nodded. “A good place to start.”

“Each of us wants something from the other.” Daemon locked eyes with his father. “You want access to us. We want our freedom.”

Some new emotion tinged Saetan's psychic scent but all he said, mildly, was, “A good summary.”

Daemon leaned forward, smiling. “Then let us deal.”

It took almost the whole night. But they came to an agreement: Saetan would remove the Rings and take them to the Keep, where he and Andulvar would teach them everything they knew. In return, Daemon and Lucivar would sign a contract with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan for fifty years, to serve—and listen, and learn, and not turn their tempers on the people that Saetan protected. And at the end of that contract, they would be able to stand on their own as Warlord Princes and make a new deal.

Everything has a price.

For fifty years, Daemon and Lucivar would submit and serve two men they barely knew. And for fifty years Saetan would try to teach his sons about honor and justice and mercy. Then they would go their separate ways.

Darkness willing, it would be long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU isn't over. The next part is a separate fic, so subscribe to the series to get updates.


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